


Elven Thief

by elvhenphoenix



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Skye Lavellan, Thief, bar au, but sometimes it might be a bit ew, first time writing an au whoops, its probably going to be predictable as fuck, when it says graphic depictions of violence ill try not to make it too bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5339891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvhenphoenix/pseuds/elvhenphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Skye Lavellan is an exiled Dalish working in a shitty bar in Val Royeux, and the only way to get back to the clan is to steal an ancient, priceless Dalish staff. </p><p>Trouble is, the only person who might be able to help is someone she's never met.</p><p>He calls himself the Dread Wolf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ma serannas - my thanks.  
> Dirtha elvhen? - You speak elvish? (Roughly)  
> Da, vin - a little, yes.  
> Garas quenathra? - What are you doing here?

It's been six months since her arrival in Val Royeaux. Six months since her banishment from the Clan. Six months since she was allowed to see her sister. And now, after a month or so living in the gutter of the Alienage, she has an apartment, with a ceiling that keeps out the stars, and a job in a shitty bar that pays next to nothing that she really can't afford to quit.

Oh, and she has to hide her apostate magic from everyone and everything, lest she be carted off to the Circle by the Templars. If that happened, she would never get back to the clan.

One of her regulars is a Templar. Or, at least, she thinks he is. He comes in at the same time every day, and always orders the same, a watered down ale that makes her head spin to smell it. Then he sits there, holding it, not even bothering to take off his overcoat, the Templar emblem stitched with faded thread into the breast pocket. Today, though, he looks worse than normal, a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, and his skin looking pale. As she watches him, he looks up at her, a weak smile creeping across his face as their eyes meet.

She jumps, a scarlet flush appearing on her neck as she grabs a dishcloth and a glass. It's filthy and cracked, and really ought to be replaced, but she polishes it anyway, turning her back on him deliberately. Better to nip that, in the bud. Even six months later, she's still hurt by Darren's last words to her, and if she has any chance of reuniting with him, however slim, then she has to stay faithful. Then the bell above the door rings as someone enters the bar, and a stool behind her creaks as it settles under the weight of the newcomer.

'Yo.'

She turns at the voice, and sees an elf with badly cut hair pushing back the hood of her patched and holey coat. She shakes her head as she does so, sending droplets of water everywhere, including on Skye.

She grimaces as the remnants of rain touch her face, but then she smiles. 'Hey, Sera,' she answers. The elf grins at her.

'Usual, yeah?'

Skye nods, and after a minute or so places the drinks on the bar in front of her. 'One shot of vodka, and a double whisky on the rocks.' She's learnt quickly that Sera, along with a few of her friends, are regulars in this shitty little bar, and she asks for the same order of drinks every time. Sera grins, and as she dumps a fistful of change in Skye's palm, she picks up the shot in her other hand and slams it back, wriggling in her seat as the vodka traces a fiery path down her throat. 'Cheers, _Rebel_ ,' she says, after a moment. Skye frowns, rubbing her hands uncomfortably.

'You know I hate that nickname, Sera,' she warns, and Sera snickers. 'I know, I know,' she answers. 'But it's catchy! And it's the dwarf's fault, not mine. He takes being a little shit to a whole new level.' The joke sends her dissolving into peals of laughter, and she's still laughing as the door opens once more, and two more hurry inside from the rain. One, a woman with cropped black hair in a coat buttoned up to her throat, nods at Skye courteously before marching straight over to the blond Templar in the corner booth. The other, a bearded man, heads for Sera, reaching her side and clasping her in a brief, one-armed hug.

'Alright, Buttercup?' he asks, eyes twinkling. Sera makes a noise of disgust, but she's smiling even as she pushes him away.

'Was until you showed up, Beardy,' she answers with a snort, before turning to Skye. 'This is Blackwall,' she says. 'He's my mate.' The man gives her a nod, and she smiles in answer.

'Oh,' he remembers, turning back to Sera. 'Ran into Dagna. She asked me to tell you that she can't do lunch, but dinner's still on with her if it's on with you.' He pats her shoulder consolingly, and Sera cusses. After a few expletives that Skye didn’t know existed in the common language, she sighs, shaking off her anger. Sera throws a carefree smile her way, but Skye can sense her emotions roiling in the air, and that the message has upset her more than she would care to admit. Thom orders a pint, after that, and she hands it to him just as the short-haired woman approaches the bar. She taps her fingers, impatiently, and her companion sneeze and shivers, looking a distinct shade of green. Sera and Blackwall move away from the bar, settling down in a booth, as Skye moves down to the woman. 'Can I get you anything?' she asks, and the woman nods.

'Two coffees, black and strong, please,' she says, her accent sharp and guttural. Her companion, the blonde, groans quietly, and both Skye and his friend turn to stare at him.

'Is he okay?' she wonders. The woman turns back to face her, and seems to consider her a moment, judging her, before shaking her head. 'He left the Templars,' she explains in a low voice. 'Lyrium withdrawal.'

Ah. She nods, and stores away the information to peruse later as she brews the coffee. When the woman reaches for her wallet, she shakes her head. 'On the house,' she says kindly. 'For your friend. Let me know if there's anything else I can do to help.' The woman stares as her a moment longer, before her features soften into an exhausted smile.

'Thank you,' she says softly, and carries the coffees over to the booth, setting one down in front of the ex-Templar.

The door chimes open once again, and this time everyone stares at the newcomer as he enters. A city elf, by the looks of him, with no vallaslin to mark him as Dalish, dressed in a buttoned black coat. He is pale, slim, and the red scarf knotted at his throat stands out, vibrant and bright. He moves, unperturbed, into the silence, and she switches on a smile to welcome him as he leans against the bar.

'I'll have a glass of port, please,' he says softly, and she's intrigued by his accent. It's softer than she would have imagined, lilting, almost melodious compared to the accents she normally hears from the Orlesians. As she turns away she feels his eyes on her, and as she brings back the glass of port she's not surprised by the brief examination he gives to her vallaslin. She's not surprised - it's rare for a Dalish to even visit the city, let alone hold down a job here. She raises an eyebrow, and he blinks rapidly, caught off guard by her notice of his oh-so-subtle appraisal of her face. He holds out a few silver coins, tipping them into her palm as she gives him the glass.

'Ma serannas.' She speaks without thinking, forgetting that a city elf would not know how to speak such remnants of their language. It's his turn to raise an eyebrow, and he smiles. 'You're welcome.'

Wait. What?

'Dirtha elvhen?' she asks, and he inclines his head, much to the bemusement of the other clientele. 'Da, vin.' Then he frowns. 'Garas quenathra? What business does one of the Dalish have living in the city?' She stills, a small frown line appearing between her eyes, and he seems to realize his mistake. 'Ir abelas. I did not mean to pry.'

'She's an exile!'

Both Skye and the elven stranger turn to look at Sera, who by now has chugged most of her whisky. She giggles a little. 'That's what she told me. Got banished from her clan, sent here, or summat.'

Damn you, Sera.

He looks back at her, startled. She shrugs, a little helplessly, and his eyes fill with pity. _Fuck you_ , she thinks, and turns away, ignoring him beginning to check the stock. It's a good thing she does - there are several bottles she needs to refill from the stockroom before the Wicked Grace team get here - and Creators only know how much they tend to drink.

Checking that everyone has their drinks, she begins to head downstairs, and it's not until she's in the cellar, opening the stockroom door that she feels someone tap her shoulder.

'Sera!' It's a gasp of surprise and shock, and she folds her arms, scowling as the elf grins cheekily at her.

'Sup?'

'You're not allowed down here!' she hisses in response. Creators, if the manager finds the unwelcome guest down here she'll be out of a job. Harritt was hesitant enough to offer it to a Dalish, and ever after nearly three months she knows to still tread carefully.

'Look, I wanted to talk to ya, alright?' Sera answers back, her smile vanishing in an instant. 'I just couldn't talk up there, where ears were.'

Skye tilts her head, considering. 'Is this a Jenny thing?' She's been aware of the Red Jenny and her Friends since her arrival in Val Royeaux - a somewhat criminal organisation that, nevertheless, plucked her out of the gutter and helped her get the apartment and the job. It's not surprise that Sera comes so often, after all - she's the one who found her.

Sera nods. 'One of my friends found something. Thought maybe you'd be interested.' She pulls out a couple of dog-eared photographs from her pocket and hands them to Skye. Her eyes widen at the object in the photograph, and Sera watches her in glee.

'Good, right? Told ya Red Jenny would come through in the end.'

It takes her a couple of seconds to respond, captivated as she is by the image of the Dalish magestaff, carved from gleaming, ebony ironbark, and inlaid with all the symbols of the elven pantheon. It is beautiful, priceless, and she knows immediately how much it would mean to return it to the Dalish. To her clan, in fact. The idea that perhaps returning this staff may be the key to her return to the clan fills her with a curious kind of hope, as well as the inkling of an idea.

'Sera,' she asks, 'Where is it even being kept?'

Her friend looks at her tattered sneakers, then, and shakes her head. 'Buggered if I know,' she answers. 'This was a new contact, but I've not heard from him since.' Her brief hopes are dashed like a sea wave on the rocks. Sera, to her credit, sees it coming and grabs her by the shoulders, shaking her. 'But don't panic, yeah? Got another name, someone who might be able to help you. They're supposed to be kinda expert on elfy shite.'

'Elfy shite,' Skye repeats. Somehow, it's not the most hope-inspiring phrase she's ever head. But what choice does she have? She nods in surrender, sighing a little in frustration.

'Okay,' she says, handing back the photos and beginning to search a nearby shelf for the rum she's missing, 'Tell me about this contact.' Sera nods, and perches herself on a nearby crate.

'Well, they're really secretive - only ever interested in elvish shite, nothing else,' she says. 'Calls himself the Dread Wolf.' Skye stops in surprise, looking at her.

'The Dread Wolf,' she repeats flatly. 'Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?' Sera shrugs.

'I dunno, do I? I'm with the Chantry - don't celebrate no ratty wolf or weird ass gods.' It's not important enough to be angry about, and yet Skye cannot help but feel a little burning resentment towards the elf. Not for the first time, she wonders at Sera's faith.

'So how do I contact this…Dread Wolf?' she asks. Sera grins, and pulls out a small phone from her other pocket.

'This bad boy right here. It's a burner, so I'll need it back, but it's got his phone number already loaded. One thing, though - he only texts. No direct contact.' Skye takes the phone, and Sera holds up a finger in warning. 'I want this back as soon as, you hear? Otherwise you'll get an arse full of arrows.'

Skye looks at her. 'That might be a while. I don't just need information, Sera.'

Red Jenny squints at her, curious. 'Why? Wotcha got planned?'

She stands straight, then, and smirks. 'I'm going to steal the staff. What else?'


	2. Chapter 2

An hour passes, and the shitty little pub fills with people, practically becoming a hub of activity. Only one of the booths, which is reserved, is empty, and stragglers are waiting up and down the bar, clamouring for drinks. She and Bull, the Qunari bartender, are pouring drinks and pulling pints almost faster than they can handle - but only just. Bull is only ever on shift at weekends, but he knows his way around the bar as well as she does, and he handles most of the customers with ease.

There's a momentary lull in customers, and the two of them take a second to slow down. The Wicked Grace group pile in through the door, then, the bell chiming like mad as the three of them enter. The dealer, a pretty, dark-haired Antivan, waves at Skye, beaming, and she waves back. She's grown to like Josephine - a straight, no nonsense woman with a heart made of gold. Not a half bad tipper, either.

As part of their deal with Harritt, the manager, the team get a reserved booth once a week, as well as a menu of drinks that they've chosen beforehand. As they settle into the reserved booth, Skye gets the pleasure of bringing over the tray of drinks, staggering slightly under the weight and trying hard not to trip over anyone's feet. For Josephine and Leliana, it's normally whatever cocktails are on special offer that week. Fortunately for her, they're not fussy, and more than once they've been happy enough with a standard, 'boring' cocktail, one that she actually know how to make.

The blonde ex-Templar usually joins them, and tonight so is his Nevarran companion. Gently, she settles another two coffees down in front of them. The woman inclines her head, and the ex-Templar offers her a weak smile. She can't help but smile back, a twinge of sympathy pulling at her heart. The poor man. For someone who isn't a mage, lyrium is incredibly dangerous. His blonde hair is already showing tiny streaks of grey at the temples. Varric, the dwarf with frankly far too much chest hair, is the last to be served, and Skye gives a silent, tiny sigh of relief as she passes him the large tankard of cider. He  gulps it heavily, practically inhaling half the tankard in seconds. Slamming the tankard onto the table, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning at her.

'Thanks, Rebel,' he says, and there's a giggle from the next booth over. The dwarf's eyes light up at the noise, and he twists in his seat, leaning over the back of the booth.

'Buttercup!' Sera grins, and raises her hand to meet his for a high five.

'Sup, Varric?' 

He gestures to the group in his own booth. 'Wicked Grace. What else? Mind you, if Ruffles wins again I'm quitting.'

Josephine smirks. 'You know that's a lie, dwarf. Not when you think there's a chance of beating me one day.' Skye realises that she is 'Ruffles,' and looks curiously as Varric guffaws. Does he really have nicknames for all of his friends? How exhausting. The Antivan looks at the elf, who is now sitting atop the wall of the booth.

'Sera,' she begins, 'You would be most welcome to join the game, if you would like?' The elf considers it a moment, before she jerks her thumb at the bearded man seated next to her.

'Only if Blackwall can play as well.'

Leliana gestures to the table. 'There's room enough. Why not?' Sera whoops in triumph and actually clambers over the booth, landing with a thump next to Varric and simultaneously managing to kick him in the shoulder. He yelps in pain, glaring at the elf who shrugs, unapologetic. Blackwall, to his credit, takes the time to sidle out from his seat and walk around like a normal person, throwing Skye an embarrassed smile as he sits himself next to the Nervarran.

'Ser Blackwall,' she says, smiling warmly in recognition. Blackwall smiles back. 'Seeker Cassandra! Nice to see you.' Skye is still hovering, and Sera takes the opportunity to wave a hand at her.

'Any chance of another usual?' she says hopefully. Skye nods, smiling, and heads back to the bar. It's emptier, now, the after work rush seemingly done for today, and she gives a small sigh in relief. Perhaps tonight won't be as bad as she feared it might be.

'Bull, get Sera another usual, will you?' The Qunari is checking his phone, again, and she stops, watching the worried crease of his brow as he reads a text. 'Bull?' He snaps the phone shut, pocketing it as he looks at Skye.

'Sorry, boss,' he says sheepishly. 'Dorian's coming by.' She raises an eyebrow.

'What's going on?' she asks. He shakes his head.

'No idea. He wanted to talk to me about something.' The Qunari is clearly worried about him, and she sighs, relenting and letting him off the hook just this once. She knows all about the struggles Dorian faces from his parents, about his relationship with Bull, and she can't help but root for them regardless.

'Don't worry about it,' she says, touching him gently on the arm. 'I hope everything's alright. But if you could get Sera's order…?' He nods, and reaches for the bottle of whisky as she begins to go round and collect the empty glasses. The strange city elf from earlier is still here, she notes, and as his glass is empty she gravitates towards his table. He's no longer alone, however, and she's a little surprised to see the youngster in the baggy hooded jumper. The boy is staring down at the table, his hands tapping out an energetic rhythm, and as she comes a little closer she can hear him whispering.

'It hurts, little knives in my head, burning, my skin itches, I need more, the nightmares…'

The city elf leans forward. 'Focus, my friend. You cannot help everyone.' She reaches the table, reaches to pick up the stranger's glass, and the young boy shoots out a hand, grabbing her wrist with surprising speed and strength.

'Hey!' Skye is more surprised than alarmed, but as the boy stares up at her, his pale blue eyes burning into hers, fear begins to gnaw at the edges of her mind. 'She can't sleep without you there,' he murmurs, still staring at her. 'You miss her, too, but you shouldn't have killed him. They called you a traitor, killer.' The words slap her across the face, as shock ripples through her. The fear is getting bigger and she can feel tears welling up in the corners of her eyes. The city elf looks at her, and intervenes, grasping the boy's shoulder firmly.

'Cole,' he orders, 'Let her go.' Cole, if that's his name, nods, and he drops her wrist, still watching her as she backs away shakily.

How did he know, how could he know? No one knows about what she did to get banished here, no one in the city, at least. She's shaking as she returns to the bar, her mind whirring with the possibilities that stem from this. If word got out, she could be arrested. And then they'd learn she had magic. She's heard stories about what happens to 'uncontrolled' mages, has seen the Tranquil in the marketplace, their faces and minds emptied of all that makes them people.

Creators, she's going to be sick.

She steadies herself on the bar, taking a few deep breaths to regain control. Bull joins her, looking worried. 'You okay, boss?' he asks, and gestures half-heartedly to a chair. 'You're as white as a sheet,' he says in a low voice.

'I think I'm coming down with something,' she lies. 'I have a horrible headache.' People are looking at her, and she can feel a flush creeping up her neck. Cole and his elven companion are watching her, too, and the desire to just run out of there is overwhelming. 'I think I need to go home.'

Bull nods. 'That's cool, boss. I'll finish up tonight.' She smiles at him weakly, grateful, before hurrying to the staff room and grabbing her hooded jacket. She checks her bag, satisfied that she has all of her belongings, and slings it over her head, letting the bag rest across her body. She re-enters the bar, then, and moves through swiftly, trying hard to ignore the stares of concern from the patrons. She just needs to get home, to rest, to sort out her head and plan her next steps. Sera's watching her as she flings open the door to the outside, and frowns as the Dalish elf practically flees into the night.

It's still raining, and she struggles with her hood for a moment, an elvish curse slipping from her tongue as the rain dampens her hair and drizzles down her face. Her mind works feverishly, concocting a plan - the sooner she contacts Sera's friend, the Dread Wolf, the sooner she can steal the staff, and return to the wild, and forget this whole ordeal ever happened. Finally, she's ready, and without waiting another moment Skye delves into the shadows of the alley opposite, moving swiftly and without pause.

So swiftly, in fact, that she fails to notice one of the shadows detach itself from the gloom, and follow her, like a predator hunting its prey.

She's almost home when she realizes someone is following her. As she slows, in the midst of this deserted alleyway, she can feel her magic trickling down her arms, pooling like molten fire in her palms and fingertips. It's oddly liberating, feeling her magic springing to her defence - a feeling she has had to fight to deny every day since her arrival in this shemlen city.

Careful, she reminds herself. It could just be someone who happened to take the same route that you did. But she's a mage, and she can sense the hostility emanating from behind her. She's a Dalish, and her time in the wild has taught her the ways of the hunter and the hunted. Neither brings comfort. She is but prey now, trapped and alone, and she stops in her tracks, sensing her stalker come to a halt a few feet away.

But she is so much more than prey, and the feeling of her magic, warm and protective, is a comfort. Time to show that the prey has claws. She spins on her heel, tensing, to face him, and her attacker leaps forward in the same moment. He's faster than she, and his body slams against hers, knocking her backwards into the gutter. She scrambles away, her heart pounding as he takes another slow step towards her.

'Look at you, little rabbit,' he purrs, and the slur both frightens her and fuels her furious magic. He snickers. 'No one is going to care what happens to you. That makes this easy.' She can feel the cobbles of the road, of the gutter, beneath her hands, stinging as blood begins to drip from scratches she gained from the fall. She can feel the rainwater soaking into her jeans, and as she looks up at her shadowed assailant, she has to stifle a sob at her situation. Her magic is burning hot now, almost painfully, pulsing with her heartbeat in her fingers. It's begging for release, to wreak vengeance on this one who threatens her 

'Stay still, rabbit,' he whispers softly to her, as he draws a knife from inside his coat.

The sound of the blade, the sight of the shining steel, makes her snap.

Her fear is burned away by her magic, uprising within her, and she is no longer simply a frightened elf, a pathetic rabbit. She is a Dalish mage, one of power, and this fool shem will see the consequences of his actions.

Like a rabbit, she springs to her feet. Like a Dalish, she snarls silently at her attacker. Like a mage, she releases a point of white hot fire, the heat of which scorches his face as it burrows into his chest, knocking him back into the gutter. He cries out, face wracked by waves of agony, and he screams as she continues her spell, letting her emotions control her magic, pouring every single second of her despair and fear and frustration, everything she's felt since her banishment to this awful, awful place, into the arrow of fire which burns into the man crying on the ground. The point of fire seems to flare, a bright, liquid gold, and the man lets out a shriek that dies into a gurgle. His skin is bubbling, grotesquely, around the mark where the spell is striking him, and the heat sends creeping cracks in his flesh up to his neck, tracing his jawline.

She is devastating, a being of fury, and as the magic overtakes her, she smiles, watching his struggle with stone cold eyes.

'I am no rabbit,' she whispers as she ends her spell. 'I am Dalish.' There is no answer from the burned man, his eyes wide and unfocused, his lungs struggling and wheezing for air. The burns she has inflicted hiss as they make contact with the rain. It's clear that he will not survive this savage attack, and as her magic relaxes, clearing her vision, she feels suddenly sick. What has she done? This lack of control is not the first time it has happened, and nor will it be the last, but this is by far the worst spell she has ever cast. The smell of searing flesh reaches her, then, and she turns away and retches.

Then she looks up, and sees the man watching her. Their eyes meet, and suddenly her fear and regret are clamouring to be heard, pushing to the forefront of her mind. She has just killed a man. She has just killed a man. Her knees buckle as tears fill her eyes, and she crumples beside the dying man, muffled sobs escaping her.

The strange city elf is still standing there, still watching the scene of carnage in front of him, but as she falls to her knees he goes to her side, kneeling beside her in the rain. She watches as he stretches out a hand over the man, as if estimating the size of his injuries, and then her jaw drops as tiny sparks of green energy rain down onto the burned flesh, healing them with a spell that she has never seen the like of before.

'Cole,' he says softly, and the boy appears seamlessly from the darkness, almost as if he is part shadow in his very being. He knees on her other side, and she shivers as with a wave of her hand she feels an ancient, unfamiliar magic working in the air.

'Forget,' he whispers, his voice oozing peace and comfort, and the man, whose skin is beginning to heal, rapidly, closes his eyes, his head falling gently back onto the cobbles as he loses consciousness. The boy turns to her. 'I can make you forget, too. Do you want to forget?'

His words are frightening, and she shrinks back, bewildered. The elven stranger shakes his head.

'Ma serannas, falon,' he answers for her. 'But she will need to remember this.' He looks at her, a little sternly. 'She needs to remember that she caused this.' Cole nods, and touches her arm gently. Suddenly, he's vanished, and she can't remember where he's gone. What?

'He is a spirit of Compassion,' comes a gentle voice beside her. 'He wishes only to help.' The elven strange is still kneeling at her side, and as she turns her head to look at him he stands, offering a hand to help her rise. She accepts, shivering, and once they are both standing tall she takes a step back.

'You're a mage. An apostate,' she whispers. He inclines his head.

'As are you,' he notes. She takes another step back, poised for flight, for she will flee if she has to, and it does not escape his notice. 'Please, wait,' he asks, holding out a hand towards her. 'Are you alright?'

The question makes her pause, and her eyes narrow in suspicion. Surely he is not concerned about her. Would anyone be concerned, if they saw what he did tonight? What if he is going to report her? Her questions must be on her face, for, as if reading her thoughts, he shakes his head.

'It is not my intention to cause you pain, da'len. Ir abelas.' He withdraws his hand, and turns away, beginning to walk back down the street.

'Wait,' she says suddenly, unthinkingly. He pauses, turning his head slightly to one side, listening. She hesitates for a moment. 'Thank you.' It is a blurted thanks, said in haste, a poor payment for what he has done tonight, and yet the stranger turns around, a smile lighting up his face.

'It was no trouble to assist you,' he answers, and holds out his hand once more. 'My name is Solas.'

Gingerly, she steps towards him, and extends her own, shaking his hand for a brief moment. 'Skye.'

He smiles again, gently pulling away his hand. 'Then, Skye, know that I will keep your secret.' The breath she did not realise she was holding escapes her and his eyes crinkle at her palpable relief.

'Dareth shiral, Tarasyl.' The sound of her true name, her elvish name, makes her smile, and he turns and walks away. This time, he does not turn around, and eventually disappears around the corner of the alleyway.

Beside her, the wounded man is beginning to come to, and he groans in pain. She needs to get out of here. The spirit, or boy, or whatever he was, may have made her assailant forget, but the last thing she needs is for him to remember her face as he comes to. Her hood has fallen down amidst the chaos, and she pulls it up again, quickly, hiding her pointed ears, before turning and disappearing, this time unhindered and unfollowed, into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

She hates rain, Skye decides after a few days of relentless sneezing and coughing. She hates the flu, too. And asthma, which somehow she's managed to develop within the smog and smoke of the city. She really, really hates it. How do people survive here without using magic? With no more than a thought, a mere wave of her hand, she could have kept the rain away, kept herself warm and dry.

But no. Instead, she's missing two days wages as she fights off a fever.

Magic is absolutely not allowed within the boundaries of Val Royeaux, especially from the likes of an unlicensed elven apostate as she. The denial of her magical abilities is usually a problem, but after the spell she cast upon her would-be assailant, her magic is slumbering beneath her skin. Still, it's haunting her in sleep; the cracked and festering skin; the agonised screams; the hissing of the rain as it lands upon the burning man. It swims to the forefront of her dreams, and in her fevered state the Fade reaches out and distorts them with a twisted claw.

It's easily the most dangerous, the most powerful spell she's ever managed to cast, and whilst she tries to ignore it, tries to focus herself on the endless gallons of chicken soup that Sera keeps bringing her, she can't help but ponder the severity of her magic. It's worrying, to say the least.

What caused it to have such strength? How did she give into her emotions so easily? Is it so simple as a lack of release, pent up aggression that she took out on the shem? Or is she losing control all together? As she sits up in bed, slowly, a thought occurs, and it's like a light bulb flickering into life over her head.

The other witness in the alleyway. Solas, was it? Perhaps he might have an idea. He is a mage, as is she, but unlike her he clearly has experience surviving in this city full of shems. Unlike her, with her inked face and Dalish ways, he has a way amongst them, an ability to blend and disappear that she now sorely envies. And he does it all without magic. He must have a way to control it.

Perhaps, if she tried to find him, he can give her the answers to her questions.

Just then, her phone buzzes, and Skye sees a text from Sera.

**S: OI! WAKE UP. I'M OUTSIDE.**

Another text follows shortly after, followed by a third.

**S: LET ME IN, DUDE.**

**S: I'VE GOT NEWS!**

What the hell is she talking about? Groaning, Skye heaves her tired, sick body out of bed, her head spinning as she reaches for her worn out pullover. It's far too big, but it's the only memento she has of her dad, and it never leaves her side, even in the scary human city. She sneezes as she opens her front door, and Sera recoils with a noise of disgust.

'I swear, if you infect me I will never forgive you, Rebel,' she says, scowling. 'Get back into bed.'

For a Red Jenny, and a criminal mastermind, she's not got a half bad bedside manner. Skye clambers back under the covers, shivering, and after a few minutes of clattering pots and pans, and the whistling of her piece-of-crap kettle, the city elf comes in with a steaming bowl of soup - tomato, by the smell, this time - and a mug of hot chocolate on a tray. Skye takes the tray, and Sera produces a newspaper from her back pocket. She's frowning as she reads aloud.

'…the victim, who has now been named as Grand Duke Gaspard, was found in the early hours of yesterday morning. Now in intensive care at the Royal Royeaux Hospital, the Templar Regiment are treating the incident as attempted murder. They will be conducting an investigation over the coming weeks. Elves are asked to remain within the city limits until the investigation in complete.'

She stops reading, and looks up at Skye, who has a spoon sticking out of her mouth.

'Well?'

She raises an eyebrow. ''Well' what, Sera?'

Sera snorts. 'You know what! Was this you?'

Skye swallows her mouthful of soup slowly, mind whirring as she crafts a quick response. Sera doesn't know she's a mage - she can't exactly tell her the truth.

'Not at all. Why would you even think that?' Her lungs seize, then, and she erupts into coughs, eyes streaming as she reaches for a tissue. 'Inhaler,' she manages to wheeze. 'Coat.'

As she struggles to keep her breath, Sera goes to her coat, still damp, draped over a chair, and searches the pockets, eventually retrieving the blue inhaler and chucking it at the feverish elf in the bed. Skye twists the base, takes two sharp puffs, and feels the acrid medication burn its way down her windpipe. It's a sour taste, and she scrunches her nose at it, but her lungs seem to relax, and finally she can breathe again.

Only to feel unease creeping up on her. Sera watches her, a worried creasing her brow. 'You're not from around here, idiot,' she explains. 'Too elfy, with your ink 'n' all. You'd be easy pickings from the Templars.'

She goes back to Skye's damp coat and continues to rifle through the pockets, finally withdrawing the burner phone she was given just a few days earlier. She begins to text, and Skye protests weakly.

'Sera, what are you..?'

Sera sends the text, and throws the phone to her. Skye catches it, and reads the text.

**Red Jenny says you can help me.**

What the hell is Sera playing at? She scowls at the blonde, who proceeds to perch on the end of her table, swinging her legs.

'That should have been my decision,' she chides. Sera rolls her eyes.

'You're all talk and no breeches,' she answers sharply. 'Thing is, Templars will pick you out a mile off, and they'll blame you for what happened to that human. You need to get out of Val Royeaux as soon as.'

Her face softens then, and she comes back over to the sick elf in the bed. Resting her hand on Skye's forehead for a moment, she winces. 'That temperature isn't getting any better. You got any potions?' Skye shakes her head, and Sera wags a finger at her. Then she heads to the door.

'I'll let you sleep a bit. Call me when you're feeling better. If you don't, I'll assume you're dead or summat.'

Skye's not entirely sure she's joking.

Sera leaves a few minutes later, and it doesn't take much for Skye to fall back asleep. Her dreams are fretful, a wolf made of nightmares chasing her through the Fade, the bloody, battered body lying in the gutter, damp and dripping.

When she wakes up, it's dark outside. Her head seems to have cleared, however, and now that she's slightly more awake, Sera's text seems even more ridiculous. Creators, what the hell is she doing? This is madness! To even think about stealing a staff, of which she knows next to nothing about, and which could see her thrown in jail, or sent to a Circle, or even made Tranquil, is stupid and foolish and dangerous, to say the least.

But she wants to go home. She needs to get back to the Dalish, to her people.

No, she decides eventually. This is not the way to do it. Making the decision seems to lift a weight from her shoulders, and she reaches for the burner phone. Sending another text to the 'Dread Wolf' will sort it all out.

Skye flips the phone open, and freezes, going still as she sees the message icon blinking in the corner of the screen.

With trembling fingers, she opens the message, holding her breath as she reads the Dread Wolf's response.

**DREAD WOLF: It depends what you have to offer me, in return.**

Crap.


	4. Chapter 4

She elects to ignore the text from the Dread Wolf. Over the next few days, the phone sits on her bedside table like an eyesore, taunting her to answer the message. Somehow, she finds the willpower to resist – Creators know how foggy and muddled her mind has been whilst the flu worked its way through her system.

Still, it’s another three days before she finally gets enough feeling in her legs to walk back into work. Her little evening in the rain, as she’s beginning to refer to it, seems like a distant memory, and as she wanders through the streets, Skye even begins to push it to one side. She really must buy an umbrella before the next rainfall.

It takes her a little longer than usual to get to the bar, but eventually, late for her shift, Skye pushes open the door into the Rose Empress. It’s quiet, but that doesn’t deter the Qunari from shouting across the room as he sees her enter.

‘Titch!’ His low voice booms through the bar, and everyone instinctively turns their heads towards her. ‘Welcome back!’

Skye ducks her head, flipping her braid over her shoulder, and she grins at the Iron Bull. ‘Nice to be back.’

As she shrugs off her coat, and begins to unwind her scarf from about her neck, Bull reaches for something behind the bar, and passes her an envelope as she walks through the bar to the door marked ‘Staff Only’. Skye takes it in her free hand, and once she’s hung her coat and scarf on the last free peg, opens the envelope.

It’s a Get Well card. She stares at the bright glitter on the front, the multi coloured rainbow that graces the top of the picture.

She’s never had a Get Well card before. The Dalish didn’t tend to get sick in their communities.

With a peculiar excitement in the pit of her stomach, Skye opens the card, and her heart feels like it physically clenches as she sees all the signatures.

There’s Sera’s messy scrawl, as always, complete with a surprisingly well drawn Skye serving drinks. The Iron Bull and Dorian have added theirs, one a readable, heart-warming scrawl, the other an elegant flourish of penmanship. Even the members of the Wicked Grace team have added their signatures.

Josephine’s, in particular, stands out.

_So sorry to hear you’re ill. WG isn’t the same without you! Get well soon, my friend. X_

‘My friend.’

It’s the first time she’s been called a ‘friend’ by anyone in the city. Even Sera, checking up on her and bringing her soup, even when she fished Skye out of the gutter and saved her life, has never called her a friend.

Stowing the card into her coat pocket, Skye reaches for an apron and ties it about her waist. Checking in the mirror that her hair hasn’t gone wild in the wind, she goes back into the bar area, and re-joins Bull behind the bar.

‘Sup.’

He turns to her, his horns narrowly missing the glasses hanging overhead, and throws his arms around her in a massive hug.

‘Good to see you back, titch.’ He grins, then nods at someone behind her as they clear their throat indignantly.

‘That’s twice you’ve walked past me now, my dear, without so much as a nod or a smile!’

Skye turns, beaming at the well-dressed man, sitting at the end of the counter who nurses a martini in one hand.

‘Dorian!’ He stands, and she goes down to him, leaning over the bar as he plants his hands on her shoulders, and kisses her firmly on both cheeks. He leans back, studying her face, and she can see the amusement and the worry in his eyes.

‘My dear,’ he pronounces, ‘I know you’ve been ill, but it is awfully good to see you. You are looking a little pale, though – are you sure you’re fit to come back just yet?’

She nods, giving a half-hearted shrug as she does so. ‘Don’t have too much of a choice, do I? Girl’s gotta eat.’

Dorian clucks his tongue, then looks at his boyfriend, arching his brow. ‘Amatus, you take care of this girl, alright?’ He drains the last of his martini, and rises from his stool. ‘I have to go, Skye, but I will be back later! We can catch up then.’

Dorian winks, before touching his heart briefly to Bull. ‘I’ll call when the interview is over.’

The Iron Bull nods. ‘Good luck, kadan. Brave thoughts!’

Dorian leaves in a swish of blazer and elegant scarf, and Skye looks up at the Qunari. He’s watching his boyfriend leave, but there’s a worry crease in between his eyes, and she nudges him with an elbow.

‘What happened?’

He starts, and turns to look at her.

‘What do you mean?’

Skye rolls her eyes. ‘You know exactly what I mean. Since when has Dorian needed a job? And why are you looking so worried?’

The Qunari seems to hesitate for a moment, before sighing, his shoulders slumping as he does so.

‘His parents found out.’

Ah. That would explain a lot. Dorian’s parents, from what she knows, are ultra-conservative – never mind that they’re from Tevinter. His gay relationship with a reformed Qunari is, to them, worse than blood magic; and that’s saying something.

‘Poor him.’ She frowns. ‘What about you? Are you okay?’

Bull shrugs again. ‘I’ll get back to you on that.’ He sighs again. ‘At the moment, he’s staying with me. Trying to get him a job and back on his feet – I won’t lie to you, titch, that was a difficult patch.’

Skye touches his arm, gently. She’s about to offer a few more words of comfort when someone clears their throat.

‘Lavellan.’

The gruff voice behind her makes her turn, and Skye sees her boss leaning against the doorframe. Harritt nods at the card.

‘Weren’t sure when you were going to come back to work.’ Clearly, he’s not impressed. ‘Thought you might have called, at least.’

She sighs, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry. I had a really bad case of the flu.’ Skye waves her hand towards the bar outside. ‘Sera can confirm, if she decides to turn up today. She’s been checking in on me all week.’

Bull nods beside her. ‘It’s true, boss. She’s still not quite with it.’

Harritt raises an eyebrow. ‘Oh, really? Maybe she should go home, then?’

There’s an angry glint in his eye, now, and Skye hurries to remedy the situation before it gets any worse.

‘I am more than well enough to work,’ she interrupts. ‘Just let me work my shift, and then I’ll come back tomorrow to work a double. Does that suit you?’

Harritt considers her offer, and Skye lets out a small breath as he eventually nods.

‘If you’re late, you’re fired,’ he comments, and then disappears back to his office.

A moment later, he sticks his head out of the door.

‘Actually, Skye, get in here.’

Exchanging a curious glance with her fellow bartender, Skye crosses the room and follows Harritt into his office.

It’s a small and stuffy space, and the air is slightly misty with cigarette smoke. Sheaves of papers litter the desk, and she takes a seat on the dusty chair in front of it as Harritt goes to sit behind it. He leans back, and his feet rise to rest on the desk.

‘So,’ he begins, ‘I assume you heard about the Duke?’

She blinks. ‘I’m sorry?’

He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. ‘The attempted murder. You know, it wasn’t far from here. And you left early that night.’

Skye tries very hard to keep a straight face. There’s no way Harritt, of all people, will have put two and two together, surely.

He leans forward, and hands her a card. ‘All I’m saying, right, is that the Templars think it was an elf who did it. You stand out a mile around here anyway – there’s no telling how long it’ll be before they come round, asking questions.’

He stands, and Skye follows, reading the business card.

_Josephine Montilyet_

_Practical Wisdom, Trusted Advice._

_Legal Advisor_

Skye stares up at Harritt. ‘What is this?’

He shrugs. ‘Josephine left it here last time she was in. Thought that it might help for the only Dalish elf for miles around to have a bit of legal representation.’

He frowns, and oddly his face softens as he does so. ‘I know I come down on you a bit hard, Skye, but I wouldn’t want to see one of my staff get done for attempted murder. The Templars will pick on anyone who seems out of place.’ He gestures to the door. ‘Think on it.’

That’s a dismissal if she’s ever heard one, and Skye pockets the card as she returns to the bar.

There are a few more people about, now, and as she rejoins Bull there’s another chime at the door. A familiar blonde man walks through, and part of her is relieved to see there’s a little more colour to his face than the last time she saw him.

Bull nudges her. ‘He kept asking after you and all,’ he comments. Skye shakes her head.

‘I’ll take him a coffee in a minute,’ she murmurs, and turns her back on the customers to check on the stock.

‘What else did I miss?’ she asks as she crouches to the floor. Bull shrugs.

‘Not much, if I’m honest. People kept asking where you were – did Harritt pass along Ruffles’ card? She left it for you a couple of days ago.’ Skye nods absently, mentally noting how many bottles she needs to bring up from the cellar.

‘Baldy came back yesterday. You remember him – the weird elf?’

Skye straightens up so quickly she catches the top of her head on the counter edge.

Groaning, she rubs her crown as she looks at Bull.

‘Solas was here? What did he say?’

Bull grins, and immediately Skye recognises her mistake.

‘Solas, eh? First name terms already? Very interesting, titch.’ He winks and she rolls her eyes.

The blonde ex-Templar stands from his usual spot in the corner booth, and comes slowly over to the counter. Bull turns away, leaving Skye to deal with him.

‘Could I get a coffee? Black with sugar, if that’s alright.’

She nods, and turns away to start up the coffee machine.

‘You’re Skye, right?’

The blonde is talking to her. She waits to answer, pouring the coffee with slow precision, and then plasters a smile on her face as she hands the coffee to him.

‘Yeah, that’s me. How did you know?’

He smiles back, eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘I’m a friend of Leliana’s. She filled me in.’ He clears his throat. ‘I’m Cullen, by the way.’

She inclines her head. ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ she answers as she rings up the coffee on the till. ‘That’s three silvers. For the coffee.’ Cullen digs in his pockets for a moment, before bringing out a golden royal and placing it on the counter.

‘Keep the change.’ His smile is warm, even if his eyes are a little intense, and Skye can feel her face flushing a little as he takes his coffee back to his booth. Creators, that’s one hell of a tip.

Bull smacks her on the ass.

‘What a little flirt,’ he smirks, and Skye hits him on the arm.

‘Shut up.’

‘Go and talk to him, then! Prove me wrong!’ Bull grins. ‘I’ll bet ten silvers that he asks you out before you finish your conversation.’

Skye looks at him, her mouth opening and closing several times before she finally surrenders. ‘Fine,’ she warns, ‘But if Harritt comes out this is on you.’

Leaving Bull behind the bar, she makes her way over to Cullen. He’s nursing his coffee, still piping hot, and doesn’t seem to notice her approach. Behind her, Skye can hear Bull sniggering, and the whole idea suddenly seems ludicrous, if fun.

‘Hey.’

Cullen jolts out of his reverie at her voice, and as he looks up at her his face splits into a smile. ‘Hello.’

She gestures, a little awkwardly, to the seat opposite him. ‘Mind if I join?’

He shakes his head, an endearing smile playing about his mouth, and she sits opposite him.

‘Was there something you wanted to talk about?’

She shrugs, suddenly aware that she’s being extremely awkward. ‘Um, not anything in particular. I just…is the coffee okay?’

He arches a brow at her, then chuckles a little. ‘It’s great. Actually, it helps a lot. With, um…’ He trails off, colour spreading up the side of his neck.

She tilts her head a little. ‘Your friend told me about it, last time she was here.’

‘Cassandra?’ Cullen closes his eyes briefly. ‘She means well, but I don’t need the whole bar knowing.’

‘No!’ Skye hastens to clarify her point. ‘I was worried about you, and she told me what was going on. I’m sorry.’

He snorts. ‘I’m not. The Templars are not what they were. It wasn’t what I signed up for, in the end.’

There’s a story there, she’s sure of it, but for now she’s content to sit in silence.

Cullen sips his coffee, clearly waiting to ask her a question.

‘I’m going to take a wild stab in the dark here and guess you want to talk about the Dalish?’ It’s a teasing statement from her, but Cullen sits suddenly a little straighter, bashful, almost.

‘It’s fine,’ she adds, seeing the discomfort on her face. ‘I don’t mind talking about where I’m from.’

‘I was wondering, really, why you’re here. How did a Dalish end up working in a crappy bar in Val Royeaux?’

Skye’s face hardens. ‘Sorry, Cullen. That’s not on the topic list.’

He leans forward, clearly unaware he’s crossing a line. ‘Not even for me?’ A grin appears, and he reaches out a hand to touch her own.

‘I believe Miss Skye said she did not feel comfortable discussing her reasons for being in the city.’

The lilt in the new voice is unmistakeable, and Skye twists in her seat to see Solas, in his black coat and red scarf, standing defiantly by her side. A slight look of distaste rests upon his features as he stares at the human.

Cullen draws himself upright. He looks from Skye to Solas, his face hardening as he realises that the city elf is not going anywhere.

‘Of course. My apologies.’

‘I should really get back to the bar,’ Skye says, flustered. ‘Can’t slack off my first day back.’

A small smile curves the corner of Solas’ mouth. ‘If I might be bold enough to ask for a drink?’

Skye nods, and as she sidles out of the booth seat Solas offers a hand to help her rise.

She ignores, him, of course, and ignores Bull too, as he winks at her blatantly.

‘You work fast,’ he whispers, and she can feel her ears going red at the tips.

‘Shut up,’ she hisses back, and fixes Solas with a polite smile. ‘What can I get for you, then?’

He smiles. ‘Just a water, for now.’

Skye nods, and he watches her as she gets a glass.

‘I was rather hoping to inquire after your wellbeing. I heard you were ill.’

She shrugs. ‘Just the flu. Getting caught in the rain does that.’

The mention of the rain makes him still in surprise, and she freezes, too, suddenly wary.

‘Bull,’ she says over her shoulder, eyes not leaving Solas’ face, ‘Go and bring up some more stock from downstairs, okay?’

‘Sure thing, titch,’ he answers, and in a moment it’s just the two elves left at the bartop.

‘Look,’ Skye says suddenly, in a low voice, ‘About the other night-‘

‘I already swore I would not tell a soul,’ Solas interrupts. ‘I have no intention of breaking that promise, I can assure you.’

His eyes soften. ‘I came to visit yesterday, but your Qunari co-worker told me you were sick. Are you alright?’

She nods. ‘The rain didn’t help, but I’m back now. Girl’s gotta eat, you know?’

Solas narrows his eyes in confusion. ‘Forgive me, but could you not contact your Dalish brethren for aid, if the situation was dire?’

Skye shakes her head. ‘It’s not that easy. Things are…complicated. We’re not in contact.’

He watches her for a minute. ‘If you would wish to talk about it, I would be more than happy to listen.’

She studies his face for a moment, searching for a hint of deceit, for anything that might suggest the elf sitting in front of her isn’t trustworthy. She can’t afford for anyone to find out what sent her here. But the secret is starting to eat her from the inside, and a slow desperation to talk to someone, _anyone_ , about it is overwhelming. His face is earnest, open even, and after a long internal debate she nods, slowly.

‘It’s hard to talk about,’ she admits, but that’s all she manages to say before the door into the bar opens once more.

In stream a troop of four Templars. Dressed identically, in smart gold uniforms, the swords resting on their hips gleam with unnatural vigor. She can sense the magic shimmering along the blades, and the entire bar goes quiet as they file into position in front of her. One of them looks her up and down, eyes resting briefly on her vallaslin.

‘Afternoon,’ Skye says guardedly. ‘Can I help you?’

The Templar nods. ‘We’re investigating an attempted murder that happened a few days ago a few blocks from here. It’s nothing overly critical at this point, but we’re canvassing the area to just get a general idea of what was happening the night of the attack.’

Skye and Solas exchange a nervous glance.

‘Of course, we’ll need to speak to both of you,’ the Templar continues, gesturing to each of them. ‘Who would like to go first?’


	5. Chapter 5

Solas and Skye start at his words, and she glances quickly at her elvish companion, whose face betrays none of her dismay.

‘Well?’ The Templar prompts, his lip curling like a cat that’s caught a rat.

‘I’ll go,’ she blurts out quickly. ‘Bull can watch the bar for me.’ As if on cue, the horned Qunari stomps back up the cellar steps, a cask of ale easily balancing on his shoulder.

‘Where d’ya want this, boss?’ he asks, and stops as he sees the Templars. His eyes flick between the dark-haired man, and the dark-haired elf.

‘I was just saying you’d watch the bar whilst I talked to these guys,’ Skye says, gesturing to the soldiers, and meeting one of them, a pale blond, directly eye-to-eye. She doesn’t back down, and is rewarded with a flash of victory as the woman shifts uneasily on her feet, glancing away after a heartbeat.

Her companion, the greasy, dark-haired man, takes no notice, and with a wave of his hand he dismisses the two Templars who have accompanied him and the woman in. ‘Barris, Felix, go ahead and note the surroundings. Talk to the customers, see who was here the night of the attack.’ He gestures for effect, and as he turns his eyes alight upon the shivering Cullen, huddled in the corner of the bar.

‘Do make sure you say hello to your _dear_ comrade over there, too.’ Cruel mirth marks his tone, and Skye clenches her fists at his words. She knows exactly how Cullen will feel, knows exactly what it feels like to be the outcast, and anger begins to crackle in her heart.

The Templar turns back to her, and the corner of his mouth curls in a cruel smile as he sees her stance. Without a direct response, he nods to his companion and heads to the back of the bar, hand raised to hammer on the door that leads to Harritt’s office. The man himself appears with a few swift thuds to the stained wood, an irritated expression melting away as his eyes fixate on the golden insignia of the Templar Order, the flaming sword glinting in the light, pinned to the chest of the soldier before him.

‘Templar Samson. To what do we owe this…visit?’ he asks, swallowing the fear which has crept, unbidden, into his face.

The Templar has his back to her, but Skye can easily imagine what his face looks like. ‘There was a murder, a few days ago, near here. We just want to question some of your staff, Harritt – but we need the office. Privacy, you understand.’

Harritt can’t refuse a member of the Templar’s regiment, she knows that much. His shoulders sagging in defeat, he steps away from the door, and heads disgruntedly towards the bar. Skye begins to take off her apron as she approaches, throwing him a sympathetic glance.

‘They normally this bad?’ she asks in a whisper. Harritt shrugs. ‘Not usually.’

The Templar with the pale blond hair clicks her tongue at Skye, then, and gestures with an arm towards the office.

‘Shall we?’

Skye nods, and gives her apron to Harritt as she passes. Solas watches her walk into the office, his blue eyes creasing slightly at the corners.

Samson hasn’t waited for her, and as Skye walks through the door he settles himself into Harritt’s chair. He gestures to the seat in front of the desk, and she takes it with a wry sense of déjà vu, watching the Templar as she does. Behind her, the female Templar closes the door with a soft click, and with it the room is suddenly filled with a thick, pressured silence.

After a moment, Samson leans forward, steepling his fingers together in front of him. ‘I’d like to start just by asking a couple of questions, get some basic information down about you. What’s your name?’

There’s a professionalism about him that seems to emerge as he talks, a detachment that seems to wipe away his emotions, and with it she feels a tiny sense of relief. He may be callous and cold, but it seems that for the moment, he is content with simply doing his job.

‘My name is Tarasyl Shielan, of the Lavellan Clan.’

Samson’s brow furrows. ‘Tarasyl…Shy-lan?’ He spells it out delicately, and she nods.

‘Tarasyl means ‘Sky’ in your language. I find that having a shem name helps with the job.’

Samson nods in response, and takes a pen from Harritt’s desk as he scrawls down her answer. He looks up at her quizzically. ‘I’m sorry, did you say you were from the Lavellan clan?’

Skye nods.

‘Don’t your lot roam the Free Marches? I would’ve thought you’d move to Kirkwall, or Wycome. What on earth are you doing in Val Royeaux?’

She hesitates before she speaks. ‘I was asked to leave my clan.’

His eyes seem to gleam like a cat’s, waiting for information just beyond his reach, and Skye folds her arms protectively.

‘We don’t speak about Dalish laws to the shemlen,’ she answered. ‘Ir abelas, but I have to respect the wishes of my clan.’

The elven works irk him, and Samson tuts.

‘You were exiled to the other side of Thedas and yet you won’t tell me why?’ He leans back in his chair.

 ‘Still,’ Samson continues, ‘We should make sure we have a full profile before jumping to any conclusions. How long have you been in the city? I assume you’ve been accommodated in the Alienage?’

She nods. ‘Six months now.’

A steel-plated hand slams down into the desk beside her, and she jumps. The blonde Templar glares at her from underneath her helm.

‘We do not have the time for this, Templar Samson.’ Her voice is a low hiss, almost guttural with anger. ‘Celene will have our heads if we fail her.’

Samson shakes his head slowly, almost mockingly. ‘We must not err in our haste, Templar Meredith. Stop scaring the girl.’

Meredith withdraws her hand, slowly, disappearing from sight, but the clink of metal as it returns to rest upon the hilt of her sword sends a tiny shiver down Skye’s spine. From within, she can feel the familiar pull of her magic, longing to spring to her defence as it did in that darkened street, and she clenches it still in a burst of fear.

To show her hand as an elven apostate, to show any kind of magic at all whilst sandwiched in between the two Templars would probably end her life right here and now. She swallows, and Samson watches her with narrowed eyes.

‘So where were you, then, on the night of the attack?’ He pauses for a moment. ‘It was almost a week ago – I presume we can check if you were working or not in the staff records.’

‘I was working,’ Skye answers, and she’s a little surprised to hear her own voice filled with such reason and calmness. ‘Bull, the Qunari, was working with me that night as well – he can corroborate.’

‘What time did you leave the bar?’ Samson persists. ‘Did you finish your shift? Can anyone back up your alibi?’

Skye thinks for a heartbeat. If she lies, they will find out. If she tells the truth, it puts her even further at suspicion.

‘I left early,’ she says, and Samson’s eyes light up. ‘I wasn’t feeling well, and I went home. Bull will tell you this too – and there were plenty of witnesses. It was a busy night; everyone there saw that I wasn’t well.’

She pauses.

‘This is my first day back, and yet this is the first time you’ve been in to question everyone, even though we’re not that far from where the attack took place, right?’

Samson stills, and once again Skye feels the unnatural sensation of being prey, with her predator sitting mere feet from her.

‘That is correct,’ he answers politely, although cold steel is filtering in behind his gaze.

‘So,’ she continues, hardly daring to believe what she’s saying, ‘Why have you taken so long to come in and question us? Unless…’

_Unless it’s me you’re after._

Samson seems to read between the lines, seems to hear the unspoken question, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a cold, calculating smile.

‘You see, Skye, here’s the problem – we’ve now got an exiled Dalish who won’t tell me – me, the Templar Captain of the district - why she was exiled to the other side of Thedas, an attempted murder of one of Empress Celene’s own cousins just a few blocks from where you work, and no mention of an alibi from you.’

‘I gave you an alibi-‘

 _‘Which no one else can corroborate._ For all we know, you left the bar appearing ‘ill’, and then disappeared to wreak havoc upon my city. Do you see the issue at hand, here?’

There’s a sharp rap at the door, then, and Samson stands as a familiar blonde elf elbows her way into the office.

‘Oi-oi,’ Sera says sharply, ‘What’s going on here?’ She nods at Skye.

‘You alright? Hope this lug-ears haven’t been too rough.’

‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’ Samson demands, quickly growing puce with rage. ‘How dare you _flounce_ in here, how dare you-‘

‘Red Jenny says hello,’ Sera answers swiftly. The words hang in the sudden silence for a moment, and Skye sees the blood drain from Samson’s face.

Sera takes no notice, instead turning to lean against the desk, folding her arms as she looks concernedly at Skye.

‘You alright?’

Skye nods, and as Meredith begins to protest Sera draws out a small card from the pocket of her jeans. She flips it at the Templar, who scrambles to snatch it from the air.

‘That’s this one’s lawyer. Know the name, yeah?’

Meredith passes the card wordlessly to Samson, and as he reads he seems to sag with defeat, eventually sinking back into his chair. Sera smirks.

‘You may go,’ he says, waving a hand at Skye. ‘Send in the other elf.’

She doesn’t hesitate, rising from her chair almost immediately, and Sera follows her back into the bar. It’s no busier than before, and Skye’s stomach drops a little when she sees Bull is deep in conversation with none other than-

‘Right!’ Sera claps her hand on Skye’s shoulder, jolting her from her reverie. ‘That’s a favour from Red Jenny for ya – but it’ll keep Samson off your back for a few months or so.’

She frowns. ‘Seriously, you shouldn’t stick around – whoever it was that did the Duke in, you’re gonna be the number one suspect for old Sourface.’

Skye nods, understanding. She doesn’t have much time.

Just then, Solas looks over, a smile breaking out as he sees her standing there.

‘I trust the Templars were accommodating?’ He asks, standing from his bar stool.

She nods. ‘They want to speak to you.’

As if on cue, there is a noise behind her, and Skye turns to see Meredith glaring daggers.

‘Next,’ she orders curtly, and Solas begins to walk towards her and the office. Impulsively, Skye reaches to touch his shoulder.

‘Have no fear, da’len,’ he says softly. ‘I will endure.’

The office door closes behind him and almost instantly Skye is dragging Sera down into the storeroom.

 _‘‘Red Jenny says hello?’_ ’ She hisses once she’s closed the cellar door. ‘What the hell, Sera?’

The blonde smirks, perching herself on a barrel of mead. ‘I was just reminding Samson he owes Jenny and the Friends a favour. You’re it. Now, did you hear back from my Friend?’

Reluctantly, Skye nods, pulling the burner phone from her back pocket and handing it to Sera.

‘They answered a few days ago, but I never replied. I’m still not sure this is how I want out.’

Sera snorts. ‘You don’t have a choice any more, Rebel.’ Her eyes soften as she stares at the tired girl before her.

‘Look,’ she begins gently, ‘I know you want to go back to the ‘Wild’. And I know that this staff is your ticket outta here. And I know that you’ve been looking for it for _six months_. This is your best shot. You gotta take it.’

She makes a good point.

‘Fine,’ Skye says, taking the phone back and typing a hasty message to the Dread Wolf.

**I need something found and stolen. Can you help or not?**

Sera’s nodding in approval. ‘Atta girl!’

Swinging her legs, she springs to the floor and heads for the door. ‘I need a drink.’

Skye watches her go, taking a moment in the cool quiet of the cellar to collect her thoughts before heading back into the bar. Solas has reclaimed his seat, and now Bull is missing. Solas confirms as much as she goes behind the back of the bar and reclaims her apron, slipping the phone into its pocket.

‘He’s in there,’ he says, with a jerk of his thumb towards the office.

There’s a quirk to his mouth as he looks at her, and the unfamiliar warmth in his gaze makes her falter a little.

‘I take it they were about as pleasant to you as they were to me?’ She asks. He nods.

‘Unsurprisingly, perhaps. Val Royeaux has never been a place for the elves.’

She snorts. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

‘Professor?’

The new voice makes both elves turn, and Skye sees Dorian grinning as he unbuttons his jacket.

‘Messere Dorian,’ Solas answers, surprise hitching the cadence of his speech. ‘You frequent the Rose Empress?’

‘Wait.’ She looks at Solas in confusion. ‘You’re a…teacher?’

Solas nods as Dorian unslings his bag from across his shoulders. ‘I’m a research professor at the University. Ancient Linguistics is my speciality.’ He smiles. ‘I enjoy the elvhen language in particular.’

She doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

Thankfully, Dorian reaches the counter and she turns to him, grinning. Leaning down to fetch a glass from behind the bar, she reaches for the bottle of Tevene whisky and pours a shot.

‘How did the interview go?’

Dorian rolls his eyes as he crashes onto a barstool. ‘It was a disaster, my dear. But don’t tell Bull; the last thing he needs to do is worry about me.’

She raises an eyebrow.

‘You know he’ll worry anyway. C’mon, how bad could it have been?’

Dorian leans in, mock horror on his face. ‘A chicken is involved. And singeing.’

Skye snorts at the image. ‘Poor chicken.’

They’re still giggling when Bull steps out of the office, navigating the narrow doorway carefully to accommodate his horns. Dorian excuses himself, and once again Skye is left alone with Solas.

‘You seem to have a strong friend in Dorian Pavus,’ he remarks. Skye nods, absently.

‘He’s been very kind to me. We have a lot in common.’

Solas chuckles.

It’s an abrupt sound, one she has not heard from him before, but the cold mirth in his tone sends her hackles rising and she stares at him.

‘Forgive me,’ he says after a moment. ‘I struggle to understand the similarities shared by the son of a Tevintor magister and an exiled Dalish apostate.’

The words feel like a slap in the face, and his disaste as he pronounces ‘Dalish’ makes her recoil.

‘Got a problem with my people?’ she asks. Solas snorts again.

‘My dislike for the Dalish is not unknown amongst my friends,’ he answers. ‘But I do not see why it is any of your concern. You are an exile. Surely this means you are no longer one of them?’

Her blood is beginning to boil.

‘How dare you?’ she hisses in a low voice. Solas leans back a little at the venom of her tone.

‘I meant no-‘

‘Of course you did, you felasil flat-ear,’ Skye snaps. ‘You have _no idea_ what my life is like! You have _no idea_ what I might have in common with Dorian, and you certainly have _no idea_ of what it is to be Dalish! Now, get out!’

By now she’s shouting, and Skye can feel the blood rushing to her face as the entire clientele of the Rose Empress turn to face her.

Sera is the first to come to her aid.

‘Baldy givin’ you trouble, Rebel?’ she asks.

Skye nods, pressing her lips together, not trusting herself to speak. Sera seems to read her face well enough, and moves in front of Skye, shifting her jacket as she does so.

‘Rebel wants you out. So get out.’

Solas cranes his head to look around at Skye.

‘Ir abelas-‘

‘ _Don’t_ ,’ she snarls. ‘You have _no right_ to speak the elvhen language!’ Her voice is climbing higher and higher, and Sera seizes Solas by the arm, forcing him to stand.

‘Fuck off,’ she growls, and Solas wrests his arm from her grip.

‘Goodbye, then.’ His voice is cold and the bar is deathly silent as he leaves, the door swinging shut behind him with a loud creak.

Almost instantly, her heart clenches, guilt beginning it’s familiar gnaw on her thoughts. Sera groans as she takes off her apron.

‘He’s not worth it, Rebel, leave him be!’

But Skye has never been one for leaving a confrontation cold, and as Sera throws her hands up in disgust she darts towards the door and follows Solas into the cold.

**Author's Note:**

> Ma serannas - my thanks.  
> Dirtha elvhen? - You speak elvish? (Roughly)  
> Da, vin - a little, yes.  
> Garas quenathra? - What are you doing here?


End file.
